...and then I put it in my mouth. It was a good idea at the time

So this little fella came in with my shipment of photo clips from photojojo, and despite many years (read: from the moment I understood the significance of the holiday, Halloween) spent listening to horror stories of hypodermic needles found lodged inside a Twix bar, or poisoned gum drops, or crack-turned-rocket candy (I'm still looking for those), I decided to unwrap this bad boy and pop it in my mouth.

It was disgusting, and oh so good.

I could go into an intensely graphic description of my lollipop consumption (read: fellatio references, duh), but that's way tacky and kind of pointless.

Oh, kind of like this blog so far.

But really, it'd be sweetly ironic if I was actually poisoned after I finish eating this thing. Possible last words:

How many licks did it take?

Or

Curse you...photojojo!

Probably, I'd just die while foaming at the mouth, with a little trail of vomit dribbling down my shirt. It'd be like being reverted into an infant once more! Full circle, I kind of like it.

So this blog is seemingly about nothing, but I just got hit in the metaphorical nuts after I finished reading D. Coupland's Jpod, and decided that it pretty much spoke to my generation. Suddenly, taking the time to Google (I personally Wiki stuff) random junk takes on a whole new meaning. Ooh, the goose bumps.

Because I needed some income before my Visa bill swallowed me whole...like a duck

You notice that the overhead ring things make the tires redundant; pfft, amateurs

It wasn't long ago that I had used up reams of paper in order to print out an endless parade of resumes and cover letters, spent way too much time baking myself in front of my monitor in order to fine tune said resumes and cover letters, and then had to endure the mild embarrassment of presenting the organized mess to a really-can't-give-a-shit sales associate who looked down her nose at me because she had the job and I (obviously) didn't. Bitch.
But a little righteously so. Considering that we're all in the midst of economical shakedown (or, okay, RECESSION), finding a good job goes from the difficulty level of trying to master a bicycle at the age of 45 (ask my mom, it's pretty hard) to mastering a bicycle at the age of 45, with one leg...and maybe a lazy eye. Point is, people who are quad-lingual and work at shiny lawfirms are booted out, only to sashay into the considerably less glamourous world of of the service industry.

Basically, they're taking our jobs. Us students have no choice but to rely on these things, because, well, we're students. Most of us don't speak more than 1.5 languages, and we have considerably less qualifications than that snappy lawyer because we're still in the middle of earning them. Battle field unequal? Oh yeah. It's like we're attempting to fight a war armed only with footballs and lacrosse sticks.

Chaaaarge!

Actually, that looks pretty intense.

Anyway, I had recently kicked myself out of a job at Starbucks (long story short: my boss was a douche) and was fully prepared to jump into a happy pool full of journalistic endeavours via an internship.

Totally looking forward to having people hang up on me and not return my calls; the whole experience is somehow more exhilarating when you can say something like, "Hi, I'm calling for the New York Times...bitch!" before they slam down the receiver. Pfft, as if I won't have auto redial.

But recession reared its ugly head again as most places were unable to afford keeping a respectable clutch of full-time staff, nevermind hire a total green kid to do the same sort of job. At a loss and with my Visa bill chomping on my ass (it was a good idea at the time to save my bank account by postponing the payment with my credit card), I gusted out a sigh long enough to get my drapes flapping and then prepared to dive into the service industry once more.

The process is something worthy of another blog (it took from mid-February to the end of March to finally land my ass an unshady job), but you can rest assured that I am happily employed now. I will be selling shoes to keep the rest of you on your feet and running for the next source of your pay checks.

hey, you

This is for you, because I'm pretty sure you're the only audience I really have, even though you never leave your mark.

God, how depressing is that? Not as sad as the thought of you hopping on that great, white piece of techonology we call an airplane to fly away. When I first heard, I felt like I was punched in the gut. The wind whistled out of my lungs, my eyes stung and watered and my mind was thrown into a dizzying swirl of disarray as a million thoughts spun around and clamoured over each other for a foot hold.

Selfishly, I wanted you to stay beside me, within reach, so I could hug you whenever I wanted to, bump shoulders or tie your shoe-laces together like a brat or whatever.

But you deserve more than my selfishness, you deserve all of my love, which is what you basically have. So I'm proud, fiercly proud, that you were able to find yourself a place (and some much-needed dough) in another faraway land.

...Okay, it's Edmonton, but it's not exactly a bus ride away, okay?

I'm glad you're going somewhere where you can grow in that field of art you're so desperately good at, to thrive in an environment that is actually bent on nurturing you rather than constantly trying to murder you with acadamic bureaucratic bull shit. I'm only sorry that I can't come with you, but you'll always be a phone call away from me, and I'll bug you constantly with text messages.

And anyway, I already started saving pennies so I can come to see you at least once a year.

I love you, but I won't miss you. I won't let myself make that mistake of letting something as picayune as a little distance (3434km) get in my way of loving you.

Photo courtesy of Tapeten @flickr.com